


Pasteurized

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Comeplay, Established Relationship, Exhibitionism, Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-09
Updated: 2015-07-09
Packaged: 2018-04-08 10:47:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4301811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thranduil provides Bard with his favourite drink for their council meeting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pasteurized

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Fill for anon’s “Elven semen tastes delicious to humans” prompt on [the Hobbit Kink Meme](http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/14338.html?thread=26046210#t26046210).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

It’s only the second time they’ve held this council since the settling of Erebor and Dale; despite Bard’s insistence that it’s necessary, Thranduil finds little weight in the words of dwarves. His kingdom remains unchanged, though the battle for the Lonely Mountain took many of his people, and he has no need of supplies or trade with either of his neighbours. Now that his portion of the treasure has been given, he has no interest in Erebor, and even less interest in meeting with Thorin Oakenshield, who scowls so very bitterly when Thranduil sweeps into the room. 

Still, he remains diplomatic. It’s clear that Dale needs him, and he’s a merciful king, and if Dale must so obstinately ally with the dwarves, than it becomes Thranduil’s business. He joins the meeting in a wide room in Dale, situated between the two less friendly realms, the three leaders alone, save for two of Thranduil’s servers. At the last council, Thorin brought two of his rowdy warriors to slosh beer over the stone table, and Thranduil only agreed to return on the promise that it would be _his_ turn to offer nourishment. 

The wine the elves pour into his cup is only the best. Dorwinion, strong and hardy, which he’ll surely need to make it through the evening. The beer they pour in Thorin’s goblet is less so, but dwarves are uncouth and unlikely to notice a difference. A single glass is set before Bard, already filled.

This is the other reason Thranduil agreed to such a meeting. He does his best to remain indifferent, eyeing his companions with little more than boredom, though Bard always has his attention in the corner of his eye. 

Bard accepts his glass with quiet gratitude to the server. Unlike the red liquid in Thranduil’s cup and the brown broth in Thorin’s, Bard’s is a milky white, thick, clinging slightly to the sides. Thorin downs a gulp of his drink, and when he sets his goblet back on the table, he asks suspiciously, “What’ve you been served? I’ve never seen alcohol like that.”

With only the slightest of smirks, impossible to hide, Thranduil drawls, “Indeed not.” He only has eyes for Bard, who looks back at him and makes no move to explain. So Thranduil enlightens their company: “It is a special Elven substance that humans are particularly fond of.” Bard wrestles with a grin. Thorin’s interest seems to immediately drop—he never shows any more affection for Elven things than Thranduil shows for the Dwarven. Across from Thranduil, Bard lifts his glass by the delicate stem and tips the brim against his lips. 

With a practiced skill and his half-lidded eyes fixed on Thranduil, Bard slips his long tongue out of his mouth, dipping into the cream before him. He scoops a small, slick portion onto the tip of his tongue and draws it back into his lips, sucking it away to lick them clean after. He murmurs, gravelly and deep, “It’s just as _delicious_ as I remember. Thank you, Thranduil.”

Thranduil dips his head in acknowledgement of his own generosity. A lesser elf might not have been able to give Bard a glass quite so full, but Thranduil brings his mortal counterpart only the greatest gifts. Bard tilts the glass higher and takes another slow lick, just as wanton, eyes falling shut and cheeks flushing as he makes a show of savouring the taste. It almost gives Thranduil a shiver, certainly a thrill, to see his lover so very shameless before an audience. It would be an erotic show even if the contents of the glass were water. It’s far from that. And watching Bard slowly lap Thranduil’s seed out of a glass makes the unworthy company more than worth it. 

Thorin, oblivious to the gift being presented for Thranduil’s later use, begins to talk of inconsequential things, turning his attention to Thranduil. He growls of his kin in the Blue Mountains, too far away for Thranduil to spare a second thought, except that Thorin foolishly wants to bring more citizens under his unstable reign. And he wants to do that with passage through Thranduil’s kingdom. Naturally, the thought of dwarves trampling his forest is an unpleasant one. But watching Bard stick his finger into the glass, swirling it along the edge and pulling it out to lick it clean, puts Thranduil in a good mood. Bard makes use of every last drop. When he’s devoured the bulk of it, he lifts his glass and stuffs his tongue inside, worming it around to lap up anything that’s left. On anyone else, it would be a disgusting motion. 

On Bard, it’s beautiful, especially when he opens his mouth a little too wide to show off the mess still piled on his tongue and sticking to the roof of his mouth. He swallows loudly, wondrously, leaving no guesswork as to the fate of Thranduil’s release. It now sits comfortably in Bard’s stomach, waiting to be joined by as many rounds as they can manage. 

When Bard finally places his empty glass on the table, Thranduil lifts a hand to silence Thorin. Thorin huffs to a stop, but his grating words end. In the relative quiet that follows, Bard murmurs huskily, “I hope there’s more where that came from.”

Unable to stop a light chuckle, Thranduil muses, “I hope you have not been starved here.”

“Far from it, thanks to your help, but I have nothing in my land so... delectable.” Thranduil’s smirk is ever-growing. Bard is in a playful mood tonight. Perhaps these meetings are only a pretence for him, as well.

Thorin grumbles loudly from between them, “What about my people?”

Thranduil has to resist the urge to snort. Annoyed, he waves a dismissive hand, and arbitrarily decides, “They may come, but in groups no larger than three.” That should satisfy Bard, who indeed smiles proudly, even though Thorin opens his big mouth to protest. Three is a small number that Thranduil can, hopefully, overlook, though if they do manage to give him any trouble, Bard will be the first to hear of it. Before Thorin can throw a fit, Thranduil suggests, “It is late. My journey was a long one, and perhaps it was not wise to hold council so soon upon arrival. Perhaps we should retire, and continue this tomorrow.” 

Thorin, unsurprisingly, is the first to rise, noisily and disruptively, scraping back his chair and banging his fist on the table. “I agree,” he practically snarls, “if only because it is clear that you cannot hold your wine. You have listened to nothing I’ve said.” Thranduil doesn’t deny it. But it has nothing to do with his wine. Under normal circumstances, he would respond in kind, but tonight, he doesn’t rise to the bait. He merely lifts his glass, swirling the liquid around it, and remains silent while Thorin storms out of the council room, right past the elves still silently waiting with more bottles at the ready. Unfortunately, Bard’s favourite drink is a little more difficult to keep fresh in large quantities. 

As the door slams shut, Thranduil takes a sip of his wine. Then he lowers it halfway to ask idly, “Would you like me to refill your cup, or would you prefer to drink from the source?”

Bard’s eyes flicker to the elves behind Thranduil. “Scrumptious though it always is, if I don’t take it from the source, how will I know where it comes from?”

“I would feed a fellow king only the best.” Bard is, by technicality, only a Master, and Thranduil gives Thorin nothing of the sort. But the words hold, and Bard doesn’t protest.

So Thranduil lifts a hand, bidding his servants to leave. They do so far quieter than their predecessor, leaving Thranduil and Bard alone in the room.

Downing the rest of his wine, Thranduil spreads his legs, and Bard rises from his seat, moving towards what they both truly want, what even the sweetness of drink can never quite outshine.


End file.
